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“I declare that that boy is my own son, born of my body,” she said, slowly and distinctly.

“Thank you,” I answered. I laid the Bible down on the table.

“What else do you want me to do?” She said.

“There is one test,” I replied, “which, in my opinion, will settle the matter finally. The test is this. If the boy I have just seen is indeed your son, he will not recognize Durham, for he has never seen him. If, on the other hand, he is Durham’s boy, he cannot fail to know his father, and to show that he knows him when he is taken into his presence. Will you return with me to town to-morrow, bringing the child with you? If little Robin’s father appears as a stranger to the boy, I will believe that you have spoken the truth.”

Before Lady Faulkner could reply, a servant entered the room bearing a letter on a salver. She took it eagerly and tore it open, glanced at the contents, and a look of relief crossed her face as her eyes met mine. They were bright now and full of a curious defiance.

“I am willing to stand the test,” she said. “I will come with you to-morrow.”

“With the boy?”

“Yes, I will bring the boy.”

“You must allow him to enter Durham’s presence without you.”

“He shall do so.”

“Good,” I answered. “We can leave here by the earliest train in the morning.”

I left the castle a few minutes later, and wired to Dufrayer, telling him that Lady Faulkner and I would come up to town early on the following day, bringing Lady Faulkner’s supposed boy with us. I asked Dufrayer not to prepare Durham in any way.

Late in the evening I received a reply to my telegram.

“Come by first possible train,” were its contents. “Durham is seriously ill.”

I thought it best to say nothing of the illness to Lady Faulkner, and at an early hour on the following day we started on our journey. No nurse accompanied the child. He slept a good part of the day — Lady Faulkner herself was almost silent. She scarcely addressed me. Now and then I saw her eyes light upon the child with a curious expression. Once, as I was attending to her comfort, she looked me full in the face.

“You doubt me, Mr. Head,” she said. “It is impossible for me to feel friendly towards you until your doubts are removed.”

“I am more grieved than I can say,” I answered; “but I must, God helping me, at any cost see justice done.”

She shivered.

At 7 p.m. we steamed into King’s Cross. Dufrayer was on the platform, and at the carriage door in a second. From the grave expression on his face I saw that there was bad news. Was it possible that the worst had happened to Durham, and that now there would never be any means of proving whether the child were Lady Faulkner’s child or not?

“Be quick,” he exclaimed, when he saw me. “Durham is sinking fast; I am afraid we shall be too late as it is.”

“What is the matter with him?” I asked.

“That is what no one can make out. Langley Chaston, the great nerve specialist, has been to see him this afternoon. Chaston is completely nonplussed, but he attributes the illness to the shock and strain caused by the loss of the child.”

Dufrayer said these words eagerly, and as he imagined into my ear alone. A hand touched me on the shoulder. I turned and confronted Lady Faulkner.

“What are you saying?” She exclaimed. “Is it possible that Mr. Durham is in danger, in danger of his life?”

“He is dying,” said Dufrayer brusquely.

Lady Faulkner stepped back as though some one had shot her. She quivered all over.

“Take the child,” she said to me, in a faint voice.

I lifted the boy in my arms. A brougham awaited us; we got in. The child, weary with the journey, lay fast asleep.

In another moment we were rattling along the Marylebone Road towards Lanchester Gardens.

As we entered the house, Dr. Curzon, Durham’s own physician, received us in the hall.

“You are too late,” he said, “the poor fellow is unconscious. It is the beginning of the end. I doubt if he will live through the night.”

The doctor’s words were interrupted by a low cry. Looking round, I saw that